


A Broken Kind of Beautiful

by TouchTheSky



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dubious Morality, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Mild Blood, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 09:33:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8662372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TouchTheSky/pseuds/TouchTheSky
Summary: They found each other, afterwards, in the rubble and the dust.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Post-battle drabble: Grindlewald isn’t caught (and isn’t Johnny Depp because NO.)

They found each other, afterwards, in the rubble and the dust. The boy was lying in an alleyway, black blood around his lips, eyes closed, but as Graves (still Graves; the face was a well-worn glove now, too snug to take off) lifted him, he felt the boy’s fingers snatch and cling just beneath his throat. Cold knuckles pressed against his pulse point the whole way home. Graves never looked down; he didn’t need to- he could feel it pouring off the boy in waves - that hot, dark, deep-base thrum.

 _The hunger._

It was still there, then; unmistakeable. As he walked he could taste it, mingling with the blood and smoke of the aftermath. It was a taste that had haunted his whole time in New York; something bitter and burnt yet somehow sweet. It had obsessed him from the moment he stepped off the boat, and been worth every tedious, fawning second that had come afterwards, worth this wretched new identity. Percival Graves. _Percival_. A half-echo of a name that would just not leave him be.

He apparated the last block, though it was an effort. The replication charm had cost him the last of his strength, but it had been worth it. Somewhere in the city, the moronic MACUSA was still chasing its futile tail, thinking they had him in their grasp ( _him?_ snared by a _swamp creature?_ ) but the decoy that he had conjured would crumble soon enough, and then the search would begin anew.

The apartment that he had found for himself was in the worst part of the city, the kind of place that crawled with mould and stank of muggles. His room had been a postage stamp with sagging walls and barely enough room to breathe. He had created cavernous space inside it, so tall the ceiling shrank into shadow, but left the furniture: a simple bed, drawers, wardrobe, and a sink in one corner. He laid the boy out on the bed, smoothing his fingers over his clammy forehead, through that hideously short crop of hair. The boy’s eyelids flickered but he didn’t move, so Graves left him, hanging up his long coat and adding an extra layer of protective spells to the walls and windows.

Weakness shimmered through him when he was finally done and he caught the wall to steady himself. A grimace flashed across his face.

“So you do feel.” The boy was watching him from the bed, hunched like an animal. Always like an animal. Graves spat blood into the sink.

“Yes.”

“Good.” The punch caught him across the chin, so hard that it knocked him into the opposite wall. The boy was on him in a flash, limbs half-smoke, screaming. He grabbed Graves’ throat and it _burned_. Burned _inside_. Graves’ blood was blackening. His lungs were shrivelling. His whole body sang with a manic, molten glee.

His cover was gone, yes. His body was battered and the hunters were coming, yes. But he didn’t give a damn. Let them come; this had been just one match in a far bigger, longer game.

And he still had his perfect pawn.

_His perfect, broken pawn._

“Yes.” he gasped into the shadows seething around them, _“Yes.”_ One punch came, then another, and he basked in it; basked in the pain and fear and power, oh so much power. 

The punches weakened and slowed. The boy began to cry. Graves brushed aside the last fist, touched the boy’s cheek and cupped it gently, so gently that it made him flinch. The struggling stopped and the last scream sung through the silence. Graves let them stay there, frozen, and stroked one thumb down the boy’s sallow cheek. Once. Twice. Thrice.

Foolish thing. He didn’t understand that kindness was just another way to hurt, that caresses sink deeper, _break_ deeper, than a punch ever could. Graves’ hand moved into the boy’s hair, then slid down to the nape of his neck and squeezed; just a little, just enough. The boy’s eyes fluttered closed and his lips parted in a sigh. Fronds of shadow skittered across his skin. 

_Look, Albus._ Graves thought, running his other hand across the boy’s trembling shoulders, drawing him closer. _Look at this creature. What would you say to me now? Would you see what I see?_

“I don’t understand,” the boy was whimpering. There were tears on his cheeks and blood on his knuckles. Copper and salt. Graves kissed one of the boy’s battered hands, then his cheek, and tasted them both, slowly, revelling in the anxious quivers beneath the boy’s skin. Then he leaned in to find his mouth. 

“You do,” he murmured, brushing his lips just close enough to make the boy gasp “ _Credence._ I know you do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Might make this multi-chapter, let me know what you think? :P


End file.
